


Constant

by orphan_account



Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Angst, Original Female Character - Freeform, Platonic Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 18:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17167418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Maybe no one could have saved Erik. Some people may be happier being unhappy.





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so ya boi is a fucking flaming trash pile and she wrote this trash fic to match. Thanks and enjoy the mess

“Buquet! For God’s sake, man, what’s going on up there?”

Lambert rubbed her eyes with her palms. He was at it again, terrorizing Carlotta and the others. No regard for the fact that she would have to be the one to clean up his mess.

“Please, monsieur, don’t look at me,” said Buquet. “As God’s my witness I was not at my post. Please monsieur, there’s no one there. And if there is, well, then it must be a ghost!”

With this the entire theater erupted into terror. Ballerina’s fluttered about like frightened swallows and one cried, “He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera!”

Lambert stood. “I’ll go check the rigs, I’m sure it was a mistake with the ropes.”

“Yes, go and do that, Lambert.” The opera owner waved her off. No one believed it was a mistake any more that she did.

With a nod Lambert left and climbed her way up the rafters of the theater where the rigging had fallen. Just as she expected, Erik was there waiting for her.

“That woman’s voice could wake the dead—and not peacefully.”

“You know, every time you do that and I have to cover for you, you make me look incompetent.”

“Hardly. They are quite convinced that all these mishaps are of the supernatural. You couldn’t possibly be blamed.”

Lambert blew air out of her nose, pretending to be annoyed. They were both aware of the act, however, and she settled in next to him and looked over the railing down to the stage. Madame Giry was crossing with an envelope.

“I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.”

“I still can’t believe you call yourself that,” Lambert muttered.

“What would you have suggested? Signed, Erik? Signed, the Angel?”

“The Angel might have worked, actually.”

Before the conversation could continue, Erik attention was rapt by a development on the stage. One of the dancers, Meg, was pulling Christine forward to the new managers of the Opera.

“Christine Daae could sing it, sir!” she called.

“Ooo,” Lambert said in a taunting sing-songy tone.

“Shut up,” Erik snapped.

“She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher!” Meg insisted. Lambert nudged Erik’s shoulder in silent congratulation.

“From whom?” asked Firmin.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, can you believe it? A full house and we have to cancel!”

“No!” Erik growled and pounded the rig with his fist.

“Calm down,” Lambert chastised.

“Daae? That’s a curious name. Any relation to the violinist?” Andre asked her.

“My father, sir,” Christine said lightly. Erik’s whole body seemed to relax when she spoke.

“Let her sing for you, monsieur,” said Madame Giry. “She has been well-taught.”

“Yeah, she has,” said Lambert.

Christine began to sing, timid and unsure. She sounded like an amateur. Erik’s grip on the rail tightened.

“Come now, Christine, you are better than that!” he grumbled.

Giry banged her staff and Christine straightened. Her singing started to even and soften. It was getting better and better.

“Yes, yes, Christine!” he cheered quietly.

Congratulations were shared on the floor when the owners declared that Christine would sing that night. Lambert gave Erik a slap on the back.

“Looks like it’s Christine’s big break,” she said.

“I must go. There are preparations to be made.”

“Right. I’ll see you tonight, Erik.”

“I’ll see you, Lambert.”

 

Lambert took a short break during the third act of Hannibal to find Erik. She’d been caring for the curtains more and more lately—the truth was that Buquet was often too tired from drink to properly do his job. But Lambert didn’t mind, she enjoyed the simple task of pulling the ropes and being a key part of the applause at the end of an act.

So, when Christine took the stage for her solo, Lambert knew that she had the time to go up and visit with Erik. She’d seen the new owners and their patron take the spot in box five, so Erik had to be back up in the rigging.

When she found him, he was fuming.

“Who is that?” he hissed. Lambert followed his eyes to box five and the man seated beside Firmin and Andre.

“That? Ah. The Vicomte de Chagny. Raoul, I think his name is. He’s the new patron of the theater. You didn’t know?”

“No,” he growled. Lambert shrugged.

“Sorry. I thought you knew about everything that happened around here.”

“Almost everything.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t get all grumpy. It just means more money your way, right?”

“Maybe so, but I don’t care for him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t like the way he looks at her.”

“At Christine?”

“Yes, at Christine.”

“Makes sense. If I had the Vicomte de Chagny chasing after me, you bet I wouldn’t be hanging out with you,” she laughed. Erik glared. “Just a joke, Erik. Joking. Besides, wouldn’t it be a good thing if the Vicomte came after me? Can you imagine? A forbidden interclass romance for me, and Christine all to yourself. That wouldn’t be so bad.”

“It would be best to be rid of the Vicomte all together.”

“I’m sure.” Lambert frowned and checked her watch. “I’d better get back to work. The song’s almost over. Try not to cause any trouble.”

“I’d hardly need to try.” Lambert snorted with amusement and Erik managed a small smile.

Lambert scurried down the rigging and ropes back to the main floor of the opera house. Erik watched her go for a beat before looking away. He was as sure in her footing as she herself was. His attention was returned to Christine. She was really a wonder on stage. More beautiful and talented than he had even imagined. Yet, there was still work to be done.


	2. A Bit About Lambert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How fuck did this chunkster Lambert start hanging out with everyone's favorite bitch baby? Well since you asked, here's a chapter addressing that, featuring some super out of character Erik and interaction and connection to another human person that completely ruins his character arc!! Love that

Lambert did what she could to keep an ear to the ground of the theater. It wasn’t to report back to Erik, that was actually her least favorite part about knowing what was going on. Every time he threw a fit over bad news it was her job to fix it. Broken lights, cut ropes, burned curtains. At least he gave her job security.

But in her life Lambert had learned that it was always better to know more than the people around you. She may not have been the most well-educated or graceful, but she knew this theater and its people inside and out.

That’s why she was one of the first to hear when Carlotta returned and Christine was moved back to the position of wordless comedy character. Christine didn’t seem to mind, but Lambert knew that Erik would be furious.

She found him in his lair underneath the opera house. She remembered the first time she’d come here.

Lambert had been just a young girl, barely sixteen, when she got her first job at the Opera Populaire. She was little more than a maid, cleaning the theater before and after performances, taking out the trash. She wasn’t even a fan of opera, she just needed a job to help support her family.

In her cleaning she’d started to notice things. Odd footprints in the dust, accidents. The first whisperings of the Opera Ghost were made. Lambert had been told ghost stories over the fire since she was small, but held very little belief in the existence of the supernatural outside of them.

So when she’d stumbled upon the strange door behind a painting in the manager’s office, she’d already suspected the secret workings of not a ghost, but a man.

She’d wandered down the winding stairs, broom in one hand and lantern in the other, being careful not to slip on the filthy steps.

At the bottom was a dark warm room, illuminated by a few scant candles reflecting off a body of unmoving water. In the center of it all was a writing desk, an old wooden one with a single melting candlestick to light it. Sitting at the desk was a boy. A man, she supposed, though he only seemed to be a few years older than her. It was hard to tell with the mask over his face.

“Hello,” Lambert called across the water. The man’s head shot up. He’d been so deeply focused on his work that he hadn’t heard her come in, and now his form was shot with panic.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted, unable to hide the crack of fear like electricity within him.

“What is this place?” Lambert asked, trying to hide her worry that she’d stumbled upon an insane person.

“You shouldn’t be here!” The man got up from his place and stormed to Lambert. They were nearly matched in height, and standing side by side Lambert was certain that she was wider and stronger than the man. The knowledge gave her courage.

“Neither should you,” she said, puffing out her chest.

“How did find this place? It’s supposed to be hidden! Did Madame Giry lead you here?”

“The Madame of the ballet? No, I’ve never shared more than a few words with the woman. If you want to be scary, you should take lessons from her.”

The man seemed to fume at Lambert’s lack of reaction. He stepped closer to her and leaned in so that she could see the edge of a scar along the part of his brow exposed by the mask.

“You didn’t answer my question. How did you find this place?”

“The door in the manager’s office. I was dusting.” Lambert shook her broom in his face as if to prove her story. She glanced around the room. “Maybe I should leave this here. You should really clean up.”

Now the man seemed confused. He took a step back, which Lambert was silently grateful for, and ran a hand over his dark hair.

“You aren’t frightened?”

Lambert couldn’t help but scoff. The man’s voice was lost and low, and something about watching the transition from angry man to puzzled boy amused her.

“Of what? You?” He nodded. “No. Should I be?”

“Maybe so.” The man paused, almost awkward. Lambert smiled and he cocked his head like a puppy.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

“Lambert. And you?”

“I am the Opera Ghost,” the man said with a graceful bow. Lambert raised an eyebrow, unfazed.

“So, you’re the one who’s been causing all that trouble for the ballerinas.”

“I am.”

“And Opera Ghost is your Christian name?”

“I assure you, Mademoiselle, no name of mine has been touched by any God--Christian or otherwise.”

“Of course not,” Lambert mumbled. The man smiled.

“Do you have a given name, Mademoiselle Lambert?”

“No. Do you?”

The man thought for a moment and looked back to Lambert, whose arms were crossed, waiting. She was one of the strangest women he’d ever seen in all his years of watching. He wondered if what he saw of her was an act for him, to hide her fear, or if she really was unafraid. He suspected the latter.

“Erik,” he said, finally. She was the first person other than Madame Giry that he had told his name, and he wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Maybe it was because he was lonesome—and lonesome he certainly was. Maybe there was something about this girl, Lambert, that he trusted. A strange honesty.

“Erik, I hear that the owner of the opera house pays you a salary to keep your mischief at bay, is that true?”

“It is,” Erik answered, unsure of why he was being asked.

“Well, Erik, for a modest portion of that salary I’d be happy to clean this room for you.”

“And you will tell no one of what you’ve seen here if I pay?”

Lambert waved the question away. “I will tell no one either way. What business of mine is it if you’re here? As for the damages, I care very little if a rich man is made marginally less rich by a repair now and again.”

“Then why—?”

“I need the money. Do we have a deal?”

“I believe we do.”

Lambert reached out her hand then, not breaking her contact with Erik’s eyes. Cautiously, casting uncomfortable glances between her eyes and hand, Erik took it. Her grip was firm and calloused from years of hard work. He started to think if this was her first job or if it was only one in a long string. But before he could ask, she was turning and going back across the lake.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll need more supplies than this to tidy this hole!”

She had come back the next day and cleaned. It took several days to make a dent in the aged dust and grime, and the process was hindered by Erik’s odd insistence that Lambert not touch or look too closely at anything, but eventually the room was properly clean. By that time, Erik and Lambert had gotten to talking while she worked. They’d become friends, and, unprompted, Lambert continued to visit when she could.

Nearly fifteen years later, she was back in the hole that Erik called home, now much brighter and kept cleaner than when she’d first come. He had a new desk, now covered in papers and stray drops of ink, but he wasn’t sitting there when Lambert entered. He was off to the side, sitting on a pile of old pillows and blankets that served as a bed. He was dressed for the show that night in his finest suit, but his head was in his hands.

Lambert crossed to him, and he heard her coming this time. Quickly he straightened his spine and smoothed his hair, a weak attempt to hide his feelings. She smiled sadly and sat down beside him. Once upon a time he would have been uncomfortable with the nearness, but after so many years he’d grown used to her.

“Lambert, you’ve come early.”

“I’m on time. You’re the one who’s going to be late, they’re going to fill box five.”

“I expected so. I’ve planned for that.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“The matter?”

“Don’t play dumb, Erik. I heard that you had Christine with you last night, but that she came back early this morning. What happened?”

“It was going well. Very well, actually. I took her here, she sang, and then she grew tired and I let her sleep. I’d planned to take her back to her own bed in the morning, you see, but she woke early.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. She,” He took a moment to compose himself, having lost some cool thinking back to the moment. “Took off my mask.”

“Oh.” Lambert hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t even dared to take off Erik’s mask, and he hadn’t ever offered. She’d asked, of course, to see what was beneath. She’d promised again and again that she wouldn’t be bothered, that she was far from beautiful herself, but nothing changed his mind and eventually Lambert had resolved to stop thinking about Erik’s face altogether.

“And,” Lambert swallowed. “How did that go?”

“Not well,” Erik growled. “She had no right to do that! I wear this mask for her own good and she rejects the gift only to be shocked at the consequence!”

Lambert bit her lip. Erik noticed.

“What is it, Lambert?”

“You’ve said it before and I made no comment, but do you really think that the mask is for the benefit of others?”

“Of course it is, Lambert. You have no understanding of what horrors escape you beneath this mask.”

“So you’ve said, but if that’s it, why do you wear it even when you’re alone? It can’t be for fear that someone will walk in, the only people who know of this place are Madame Giry and myself, and the Madame already knows your face.”

“You know nothing of what you speak, Lambert. Nothing!” he suddenly yelled. He regretted it immediately, but refused to show any sign of it, keeping his face as stony and cold as ever. Lambert sighed.

“Fine, Erik. If you say so.” Lambert pulled herself to her feet and started walking back to the exit, hands casually in her pockets. Erik’s heart sunk. He didn’t think he could forgive himself if he ruined the only friendship he’d ever had with a moment of weakness. But Lambert turned and spoke.

“And Erik, the next time you yell at me you’re getting punched.” She smirked and his stomach relaxed. She was still with him. Seeing that last smile of hers sent a warmth through him, a sense of safety that he couldn’t find anywhere else. But there was no time to waste. He had an opera to haunt.


	3. The Chapter Where Erik Gets REALLY Out of Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You fjucking thought the last one was bad?? Hoooooo babye you have no goddamn idea. It's 1am I just wrote college essays and I'm so goddamn close to just posting this horse shit and calling it a night that I Just Might do it

Lambert watched the opera from backstage. She hadn’t grown at all in her love for the art, but she had managed to find enjoyment in the shows by thinking about the drama among the cast and about what Erik would think about one scene or another. It was an especially good night for it, because Erik was sure to be watching closely for any scene with Christine in it.

She was rolling her eyes at the back-row acting when the unmistakable voice of the Phantom boomed through the theater, startling even her.

“Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?”

“It’s him, I know it. It’s him,” said Christine. Something in her voice gave Lambert pause. Normally when Christine spoke of Erik it was fondly, as her angel, her tutor. Now she was shaking, eyes wide and searching as if the voice of her angel had turned to the warning growl of a wolf.

“Your part is silent, little toad!” Carlotta hissed.

“A toad, Madame?” Erik boomed. “Perhaps it is you who are the toad.”

Carlotta looked to the ceiling, as if trying to find and make defiant eye contact with the Phantom, before she signaled the conductor to take the music back. She began again.

“Serafimo, away with this pretense. You cannot speak, but kiss me in my—!” Carlotta was cut off by a sudden noise like a frog being stepped on. For a moment Lambert couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from, but by watching Carlotta’s reaction she discovered that the sound had, in fact, come from her own throat.

From far up in the rafters Erik laughed. This seemed a fairly harmless interruption, but Lambert kept looking back to Christine and seeing her fear. Seeing that fear made Lambert’s blood run cold.

Carlotta tried again and again to sing her part and again and again she croaked. The Phantom’s laughter grew louder and crueler with each failure. She wished that Erik was right beside her so that she could grab him and ask what the hell he was doing, ask why Christine was so frightened.

“Behold!” Erik bellowed. “She is singing to bring down the chandelier!”

Finally, Firmin and Andre came down and put a stop to the commotion.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize,” said Firmin. “The performance will continue in ten minutes’ time when the role of the Countess will be sung by Miss Christine Daae.”

“In the meantime!” Andre said, putting on a thin layer of fake cheer. “We shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight’s opera. Maestro, bring the ballet forward.” Andre gave a nod to Lambert, who pulled the rope to her right to change the scene, and exited the stage.

The ballet began and Lambert immediately began to move towards the rigging. She couldn’t watch this a second longer without asking Erik what was going on. It was just this terrible feeling she had that something bad was about to happen. She wasn’t a superstitious woman, but in this moment she was forced to trust her gut.

Ignoring the dancers, Lambert scaled the ladders and ropes to reach the bridge. What she saw when she arrived was almost too much to handle.

It was Erik, or someone who shared his face, holding a noose. On the other end of the noose, struggling and clawing against the rope around his neck was Buquet--Joe, as Lambert had called him. Buquet locked eyes with Lambert for a sliver of a moment and extended a blue-tipped hand out to her. She was too stunned to move, and the Phantom pushed Buquet over the rail.

Lambert’s heart stopped. Buquet’s neck made an awful crunching sound as the rope straightened. The Phantom saw Lambert and said her name. Lambert saw a stranger and asked who he was.

“Lambert, it’s me,” the Phantom said, approaching her. As her mind began to clean and reel with questions, Lambert fought the urge to back away. “Lambert, you must understand, I had to. They had to know…they had to hear me, Lambert. Please, Lambert, tell me you understand.”

Lambert was searching the Phantom’s eyes for a sign of her friend. He was there, she could see him, but he was sick. He wasn’t the same.

“He was a nothing, Lambert. He’s the kind of person the world would be better off without. Lambert, say something. Tell me you understand. Tell me anything.”

“Erik, what the Hell?”

Erik let out a sigh of relief and ran his hands over her arms.

“Thank Heavens, I thought I’d lost you.”

“You are the Phantom.”

“No, no, Lambert. That is not my name. Say my name.” Erik’s grip on Lambert tightened and she looked down to his hands. Until now, the kind hands of a friend, of an artist. But now, they were the soiled hands of a murderer.

Lambert wrenched herself from his grip. His hands sunk slowly to his sides as if floating through water. Lambert steadied herself, stilling her hands and heart, and met Erik’s eyes. They were his now, the sadness within them could only belong to a man, but she had seen the Phantom for the first time tonight, and she did not want to see him again.

“Do not follow me,” she said, so dark and quiet that he could have pretended not to hear it. But he did hear it. It was the last thing he heard her say before she marched past him without looking back as the chandelier collapsed.


	4. The Chapter Where Erik Can't Be Out of Character Because I Changed Nothing From The Original Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In trying to keep with my tradition of super short chapter then super long chapter then super short chapter then kinda long chapter, I present to You!!! This! Look at This! Look what I Fucking made!!! also, let the record show that with this chapter means exactly 5000 words. very Satisfying. 
> 
> and yes, I still hate this fic

Months passed without a word from the Phantom or from Erik. Lambert heavily considered leaving the Opera Populaire altogether and finding work elsewhere. After all, any theater could use an every-man like her.

But this opera house was her home. She’d been here since she was a child, and now that Buquet had died, she was the only one both able and willing to take his place. For a long while she hadn’t been sure if she would be able to carry on. She’d expected Erik to surround her, to be everywhere she looked, but despite the tricks her eyes occasionally played, she knew that he had never truly been there.

To everyone’s surprise, rehearsals went on as normal. Several shows starring Christine came and went without a word from their infamous opera ghost. 

Lambert considered going to find Erik, to demand an explanation, but she was convinced that one was neither needed nor wanted. The way she saw it, a murder was a murder. The reasons hardly mattered. In addition to that, Lambert would be lying if she said that the incident had not made her wary of her old friend. Frightened, even. If a man can kill another man, if would not be such a stretch for him to kill a friend.

She did miss him, though. Him and his music. 

Lambert had never been one much for music or the arts. They tended to bore her. Whenever she sat to devote herself to a play or performance she found herself thinking about all of the other things she could be doing instead. Working, mostly. The work never stopped. 

It had been different when she heard Erik’s music. He’d played for her the second time she came to see him, just a melody he’d thought up to distract from the awkwardness of having a stranger poking around and cleaning his home. Lambert had ignored it for a while, but before long she couldn’t help but hear it. That’s when it hit her. 

A beauty unlike that which she’d ever heard before. The melody was haunting to her, and somehow very peaceful. She felt what it was to be a soul at peace. After years of violent living she lost her heart and mind in the music. Without noticing she’d started to swing and sway with the song, using her broom as a makeshift dance partner.

She’d been interrupted from her reverie when the music was cut off by laughter. Erik had been watching her and he’d laughed. Her mind snapped back into focus with a crack like a whip.

“What’s so funny, Erik?” she’d asked, turning red against her own wishes. 

“You have all the grace of a peg-legged barmaid,” he’d laughed. He was nearly doubled over the piano, loud gasping laughs bouncing off the cave walls. 

Part of Lambert was embarrassed, and the other part was too amused and astonished at the sound of a specter laughing to care.

The memory had come to her because of the ball that night at the opera house. Lambert was there to run maintenance and management. Keeping the candles tall and lit, bringing the musicians glasses of water, things like that. Since Buquet’s death the theater’s backstage numbers had greatly dwindled and Lambert was stuck picking up much of the slack. Both of the theater’s managers had remarked at her fearlessness in the theater. 

“If the ghost comes for me, Monsieur,” Lambert had once said to Firmin with a cat-like grin. “I will simply remind him why all other demons stay in Hell.” She’d never been bothered by the little man again. 

Unfortunately, due to the formality of the occasion, Lambert had been forced by M. Andre to don the garb of a waitress. The black dress and white apron felt confining and silly over her broad shoulders and graceless legs. It hadn’t been merely a joke at Lambert’s expense, she truly had to talent for dance. Walking around with a tray of our'devours felt too close to a waltz for comfort.

She was holding out her drink to a guest with a grimace when the music screeched to a halt. There were gasps and the scream of a sour note on the violin. One of the other waiters dropped a plate. A dancer fainted. Lambert knew what she would see even before she turned to look.

Her imagination disappointed her for the display that met her. A spirit in red, masked like the shadow of death. He didn’t need a face to be recognized. If his very stance and poise hadn’t told Lambert all she needed to know, she was certain as soon as the Phantom opened his bony maw and spoke.

“Why so silent, good messieurs?” he said, sick and sweet as rotten fruit. Lambert’s mouth went dry in spite of herself. She was not fearful of man nor ghost, so why did she find her fingers trembling? “Did you think that I had left you for good?”

The Phantom slowly made his way down two of the steps before pausing. Lambert was standing at the bottom, frozen and stiff as a coat rack. Pull yourself together, she scolded herself for her cowardice. Someone had to retain their senses, and Lambert was the only one who knew how around this man. As he spoke, she focused on each of her muscles one by one, ordering them to relax. Shoulders, jaw, knees...

“Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you an opera!” Lambert slowly set her tray on the flat surface of the banister to free her hands. Unnoticing, the Phantom revealed a thick tome, bound in red leather, with a flourish. “Here I bring the finished score, Don Juan Triumphant!”

The Phantom threw the tome to the crowd, and Lambert, being the only one seemingly capable of movement, caught it. The cover was cool, the title of the opera written in looping golden letters. If Erik realized who had received his work, he didn’t show his, keeping his eyes gliding over the frightened crowd without resting for more than a moment.

“My instructions should be clear,” the Phantom said in a low voice. “Remember, there are worse things than a shattered chandelier.”

Lambert dug her knobbly fingernails into the score. Her fear was shifting into anger the longer she watched this imposter speak. He may have had Erik’s voice, but whatever had taken him over was not Christine’s angel nor Lambert’s friend. 

The Phantom finally focused his gaze on Christine. Like a fool, Lambert hadn’t even thought of her and Raoul through all of this commotion. Of course he was here for her. Lambert’s chest swelled with anxiety and rage on her behalf. What right did this Phantom have to terrorize that poor girl?

“Your chains are still mine,” he growled, so dark and ominous that had anyone breathed it would have been inaudible. “You will sing for me!” he bellowed, breaking the harsh silence. 

With a swipe of his cape, a row of flames erupted from the floor. The guests’ silent terror broke apart in a flurry of flying dresses and frightened screams. Lambert was blinded just long enough for the Phantom to disappear into the chaos. She tried to push through the throng and reach him, to no avail.

“Madame Giry!” someone called. Lambert thought it was Raoul but you couldn’t be sure. 

Although she owed the Phantom nothing and probably should have wished him dead, she hoped that Giry wouldn’t tell Raoul about Erik. Maybe it was a childish hope that he would come around and no one else would have to get hurt, but it was her hope all the same. 

Hoping was all Lambert could do as she was drawn up in the wave of people escaping the hall, clinging to the blood-red score, the gift of poisoned bread to a starving man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has come to my attention that the word count is, in fact, 5006 and not an even 5000. Very upsetting and disturbing. A travesty. A nightmare while waking. 5006. What the fuck


End file.
